


For Your Entertainment

by venis_envy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (That's totally a real tag), Accidental Kissing, Boys Being Boys, Boys Kissing, Derek's Eyebrows, Friendship, Frottage, Fun, Humor, M/M, MotW Banshee, a nod to the original TW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and boredom are never a good combination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. For Your Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a page out of my vamp's book here, and writing a few drabbly-type things to get my writerly mojo flowing. This one is just fun, and something that was in my head, but any posted here in the future will not likely be as PG rated.
> 
> To be honest, I'll be shocked (and maybe a bit disappointed) if no one has actually written this before.

"Okay, please be joking." Scott looks more than a little panicked, which is funny considering he's the one with supernatural strength and healing abilities.

Stiles gestures toward himself and cocks his head back. "Does this look like the face of a guy who's kidding?" He shrugs and turns the ignition. "Okay. Don't answer that. But, still. This'll be fun. I promise."

"I've heard that before," Scott replies, reluctantly climbing into the passenger seat. "In fact, I seem to remember you promising a good time searching for a dead body in the woods the night I was–"

"Can we not talk about that?" Stiles interrupts, keeping his focus on the road in front of him. "I still feel guilty enough, trust me. And besides, you're already a werewolf this time.  So, there's really no threat. If you want, I can go first."

"Are you out of your mind?" Scott's going Sonic Shrill Wolfboy, which is never a good thing. "You'll die, Stiles."

"Okay, okay." Stiles says, patting his friend's arm. "You go first, then you'll see how easy and fun it is."

Stiles turns off the main streets onto a road that skirts the edge of town. It isn't used much now that the main highway is there, so they don't really have to worry about traffic.

Scott grabs the top edge of the Jeep's passenger window and shoots Stiles a look of complete indignation before pulling himself up and out.

"Don't dent the roof," Stiles calls out to him. He laughs to himself at the thought. His poor Jeep has been through so much in the last year that a dented roof would be the least of their worries.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm only here for your entertainment." Scott is hanging his head down by the driver's side window now, nearly giving Stiles a heart attack. "Where do you even come up with this stuff?"

Stiles smiles and hits play on the CD player. "Saw it in a movie once," he replies before cranking up the volume on a song that should never be played any louder than department-store-appropriate levels. He watches Scott's shadow as his friend assumes the surfing position, and Stiles sings along with the only part of the lyrics he cares to remember: _"Tell the teacher we're surfin', surfin' USA!"_

A total disregard for public safety isn’t always Stiles’ idea of a good time, but it beats all the other forms of “entertainment” and bodily harm they’ve managed to sustain lately, so he’ll take it. 

 


	2. The Trouble with Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's looking like this drabbly-type thing of few-fucks-to-be-given will actually be a story? Like, piece by piece, glued together as drabble-not-drabble things...  
> Sorry if this ruins anyone's opinion of it. I'm sort of going for a low pressure writerly thing to keep my mojo churning.  
> There will be slash, because that's how I roll. But not Scott slash, because...just no.

  


"You're just lucky it was me who caught you and not one of my guys." Stiles' dad is wearing his stern _Sheriff Means Business_ face. It makes both Stiles and Scott squirm uncomfortably. "Car surfing? Honestly, boys. And you," he points a finger in Scott's direction. "You're lucky I don't tell your mother. I wouldn't want to give her a heart attack, so we're just going to keep this between us."

"Yes, sir," Scott says quietly. “Thank you.”

Stiles wants to reach over and scratch his friend behind the ear, just for shits and giggles, but he resists.

"Look, Dad, we're both really sorry. We were just having fun." Stiles bobs back and forth a little, mouth pulled up into a tentative half-smile. "No one got hurt. No stealing of state vehicles—" He cringes away from his father’s narrowed glare at that one. "Okay. Still not ready to joke about that? That's fine. I'm really sorry about that, too, by the way." It's the truth. Stiles has done som e incredibly irresponsible, not to mention morally questionable, things in his young life, but causing his dad to lose his job—albeit temporarily—was one outcome he hadn't anticipated.

"So," Stiles says, not meeting his dad's eyes now and instead focusing an exaggerated amount of attention on the lines of the kitchen table. He traces his finger along the grain of the wood, swallowing hard before he continues. "Are you gonna...give me a ticket?" He isn't sure if that would actually be better or worse than his expected punishment.

"Ha!" The sheriff's abrupt bark of mock laughter causes Stiles to cringe knowingly. Scott, on the other hand, nearly jumps out of his seat. "Wouldn't _that_ just be the easy way out."

"Not really," Stiles replies, though he knows it was actually a rhetorical question. "I mean, I don't have a job to pay it, and I'm not exactly independently wealthy or anything..." He trails off as he glances at Scott and can read the cle ar look of _Please-Oh-Please-Shut-Up_ on his friend's face as if it's written there in permanent marker.

"No," his dad says, a wicked Stiles-like smirk on his face. "I can do one better than that."

With one swift motion, the sheriff swipes Stiles' keys off the table and slips them into his pocket.

Stiles gapes, holds his hands out palms up as if to punctuate the "wtf" expression on his face, and looks from his dad to Scott and back again. "But. But." He can't really find an appropriate argument. Mostly because he knows there isn't one. He finally settles on a less-than-intelligent "How will we get to school?"

The sheriff cocks his head and smiles again. "I'm sure you'll manage."

~*~

"So you're just ditching me? Again?" Stiles tosses his lacrosse stick into his locker and slams it shut. He isn't really mad, of course. He knows Scott has to be to the clinic after practice, and he can't exactly fault him for asking his girlfriend for a ride.

“I’m not _ditching_ you,” Scott replies.

They exit the school together, Stiles fully prepared to walk the whole way home, but not willing to pass up the opportunity to guilt trip his friend about it. He refuses to ride the bus, and there's no way in Hell he's calling his dad.

"You don't have to walk," Scott says. "I took care of it."

"You _took care_ of it? What am I, a child? I'm perfectly capable of —hi, Lydia." Stiles nearly trips as he sees her standing there beside Allison’s car. He will swear upon pain of death that the wind starts to blow in that very moment just for Lydia Martin. The world slows down, and Christ if there isn't actual music playing in his head as a soundtrack to the sight before him.

Lydia presses her lips together, smearing cherry lipgloss around them as she tosses a lock of strawberry blond hair into the breeze and over her shoulder. _Oh, god_ , Stiles thinks. _It's cherri es and strawberries and a whole fruit salad fuckfest and, Jesus_. If Scott actually asked Lydia to drive Stiles home, Stiles might kill him. Or kiss him.

"Hi," she replies, a little exasperated, before turning back to Allison. "So I'll see you tonight then." When she walks away, she doesn't even spare another glance in Stiles' direction.

Scott gets into the passenger seat of Allison's car. "Derek's giving you a ride," he says, as if it's just no big deal at all.

Stiles wants to climb through the window and shake his best friend, ask him if he's been smoking the wacky grass or some shit, but he's too shocked to move. Especially given the fact that there, just on the other side of Allison's car, is Derek Hale leaning against his Camaro and looking so sexy-hot-pissed-off and impatient that Stiles nearly comes just from the sight. _Is terror-jizz an actual thing?_ he thinks, before quickly deciding it’s best not to explore that.

Scott, his well-meaning, dumbass friend, _will_ pay for this later. But for now, Stiles just shoots him his most icy death glare and pats the roof of the car as Allison drives away.

 _How is this even my life?_ Stiles wonders as Derek opens the passenger door for him and Stiles slips inside.

It shouldn’t be awkward or strange at all, riding in a car with Derek. Stiles has done it before. Of course, that resulted in Derek threatening to rip Stiles’ throat out and, eventually, bouncing his forehead off the steering wheel. But neither of those things are very likely today. Stiles hasn’t been close enough to Derek or his pack to piss him off lately. It’s only through the tentative friendship-slash-truce formed between Derek and Scott that Stiles finds himself now sitting tensely in the passenger seat of Derek’s car, gripping the oh-shit handle with every fiber of his being.

“Miss me?” Derek asks, grinning sardonically at Stiles as he fastens his seat belt and starts the car.

“Like Stalin misses smallpox,” replies Stiles.

  



	3. Ohana, Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles seems to attract trouble, but that really shouldn't be surprising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to change this from a "series" to just a "story," so I hope this works.  
> Also, as previously mentioned, this is being written in the interest of getting myself back into the habit of writing regularly. It's for entertainment purposes, mine and yours, and by no means is it supposed to represent a fine piece of literature, or even my own best work. I'm having fun, and I hope you are, too.  
> These installments are mostly written from my phone, and being posted sans beta. If you notice mistakes, please feel free to point them out so that I can correct them. I am, however, going off of sapphirescribe's "commas are like penises" philosophy, in that, if it feels good, I'm going to put it there. **roffles** So, comma suggestions are not necessary ;)

  


The car ride is mostly quiet, Derek responding to Stiles’ inane attempts at conversation with mostly monosyllabic grunts that Stiles interprets as “Please, shut the hell up”. Stiles wants to ask why Derek agreed to drive him home, but he’s not one for looking a gift werewolf in the mouth, so he decides just to appreciate it in silence. 

Mostly. 

When they turn into Stiles’ neighborhood, apparently all sense of self-preservation has effectively been depleted. 

"Derek," says Stiles, voice almost frantic. "Wait, wait, wait, stop." Stiles is staring out the passenger window with one hand stretched toward Derek. 

"What is it?" Derek asks, most of the usually present irritation in his tone being blotted out by barely controlled curiosity. He slows to a stop just before the turn to Stiles’ street. 

"It's just," Stiles glances over at Derek before returning his gaze down the street by his house, "the mailman is there. I don't want anyone getting hurt." 

It's ballsy, Stiles knows, especially without Scott there to protect him, but he couldn't resist. He'll never run out of "bad dog" jokes. 

"Really," replies Derek. "Because it seems to me you're practically _begging_ for a whole _world_ of hurt." 

Before Stiles can even open his mouth to respond, Derek slaps the back of his head, sending him flinging forward and wondering why the hell the seatbelt didn't lock up for that. 

“Close enough,” Derek says, reaching over Stiles and popping the door open. “Get out.” 

Stiles does. “Thanks for the ride, buddy. And, you know, for not tearing out my liver. Seriously. We should do this more often.” 

Derek doesn’t even wait for Stiles to close the passenger door before he’s speeding away. 

~*~ 

Derek doesn’t agree to give Stiles a ride from school again. Or maybe Scott doesn’t ask. Either way, they’re reduced to the occasional good grace of Mrs. McCall allowing Scott to use her car, or the even less-frequent ride from Allison when her father is either out of town or busy plotting the demise of some other species of woodland creature. Mostly, though, It’s just Stiles walking home after practice while Scott goes off to work at the clinic. 

It isn’t terrible, really. Takes him about an hour and a half, as long as he doesn’t get distracted by the coffee shop or bakery on his way home. Today, unfortunately, is not that day. He left the school two hours and fourteen minutes ago, it’s already getting dark out, and he’s only halfway home. Stiles’ fingers are sticky with honey from the baklava he’s slowly gnawing away at, and his other hand is occupied with a dewy cup of iced coffee, so he’s got none left to break his fall when he stumbles off the curb, startled by an inhuman shrieking sound coming from the warehouse beside him. He decides to sacrifice what’s left of the baklava in favor of saving his coffee, and rolls his wrist against the pavement as he falls. 

Stiles scrambles to his feet and walks backward out into the abandoned street as he scans the blacked-out windows of the old warehouse. He’s almost all the way to the other side of the street when he manages to convince himself that he must’ve been hearing things. 

_It’s nothing,_ he tells himself. _Just too much sugar._

Convinced that the Greeks are trying to put the world into a diabetic coma with their Trojan Horse of a pastry, Stiles shakes his head and turns away. His wrist aches, and his fingers are starting to prickle with the pain of his fall. 

As soon as his eyes are no longer watching the warehouse, he hears it again: a terrible, blood-curdling, shrill scream that causes the hair on his arms and the back of his neck to stand on end. 

Stiles runs, tossing his drink straight up into the air and clearing the block before it splashes to the ground. It isn’t until he’s back in a more populated area of town that Stiles allows himself to slow down. He fumbles his phone out and calls Scott, but his friend doesn't answer. It isn't surprising. Scott, after all, is a pretty good employee and tends to stay focused on his work while he's at the clinic. With a defeated sigh and a slump of his shoulders, Stiles uses his good hand to call the only other person who might know what sort of creature such a sound could come from. 

Shockingly, Derek answers his phone. 

~*~ 

“I checked the warehouse,” Derek says, looking from Scott to Erica, then back at Stiles again. “It was empty. Not even a trace of a scent or a lingering dust mote to indicate anyone had been there.” 

“What, so, you think I really _was_ just hearing things?” Stiles asks, rubbing at his swollen wrist and trying not to show how pissed off he actually is. 

Derek walks over to Stiles’ fridge, as if he’s walked through that kitchen a million times and feels perfectly at home. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, passing Stiles an ice pack he didn’t know they’d even had in there. “I’m just saying it wasn’t anything I could track from there." 

Stiles is in too much pain, and slightly fuzzy from the pill Scott gave him for his wrist, to take another crack at Derek about tracking and bloodhound noses. 

“Deaton had a couple far-fetched guesses—” 

Stiles does, however, snort at the word “fetched.” He waves his uninjured hand in his best friend’s direction, gesturing for him to continue. 

“There’s a thick, wooded area right behind that old warehouse,” Scott says. 

“Not surprising,” Stiles supplies, adjusting the icepack on his wrist. “It would be just like some scary-ass mutant monster to lurk in the woods around Beacon Hills. That basically describes a typical Friday night here.” 

“He thinks we may find something near the creek.” 

Derek nods. “I was worried he might say that.” He motions for Erica to follow him as he rushes out the door. 

“Wait. What just happened here?” Stiles asks. 

“We’re searching for your monster, Stiles. You need to call your dad. I think your wrist may be broken.” 

“Don’t try to distract me with squishy-sweet levels of puppy concern.” Stiles probably should have asked what that pill was before he took it. “If it’s broken, it’ll still be just as broken later. I probably just need to work it out a bit anyway. So, let’s go.” Stiles opens the door and follows Scott out into the backyard. 

“You’re staying here. We’ll take care of it.” 

“Seriously?” Stiles looks at his friend with an exaggerated hurt expression. “What about ohana, bitch?” 

“Stiles,” says Scott. “It’s too dangerous for you. We just need to go check things out. See what’s happening and make sure there’s no real danger.” 

“Oh, right, because we all know what happens when Stiles is faced with _real_ danger,” Stiles mocks. 

Scott just shakes his head, eyebrows raised in that apologetic _Scott_ way, then tears off into the forest after Derek and Erica. 

  



	4. Syntax Error

  


Curiously, Derek comes back before Stiles even has a chance to get to his phone and send his supposed best friend a “fuck off” text.

“Scott’s an idiot,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles by his uninjured arm and leading him out the front door. 

“I could have told you that,” replies Stiles. “But what did he do this time?”

“He left you alone.”

Stiles jerks his arm free and stops in his tracks. “Am I not supposed to be alone? You guys afraid I’ll do something stupid?” Stiles could possibly be slurring his words a bit due to the weird effects of the pill Scott gave him, but he doesn’t even care.

“Like break your other arm? Maybe,” Derek says, eyebrow raised.

“It isn’t broken.”

Derek’s hand snaps out, grabbing Stiles by the arm just above where his wrist hurts the most. “Really?” he says. “So, this doesn’t hurt?” He begins to turn Stiles’ hand slowly, bends a finger back just a little . 

It isn’t anything that would normally hurt, which is surprising in and of itself—Derek Hale touching him in a way that _isn’t_ meant to be too violent or threatening?—but the fiery pain shooting up Stiles’ forearm nearly brings him to his knees.

Acting on instinct and reflex alone, Stiles’ free hand forms a fist and connects with a part of Derek Stiles has never imagined doing anything but indecent and loving things to.

Oh, Jesus Mary and Joseph. Stiles just junkpunched an Alpha werewolf. If he were more flexible, he’d go ahead and kiss his own ass goodbye. A thousand things go through his head in the span of a second. Stiles thinks—no, he _knows_ his brain is misfiring, feeding him the stupidest ideas possible in an attempt to get him killed.

“Syntax error!” Stiles declares.

Derek’s jaw is clenched, eyes widened, but he somehow seems to have the presence of mind to release Stiles’ arm rather than breaking it even more. Instead, he grabs Stiles by the throat and pushes him against the wall in the foyer. 

“This is familiar,” Stiles squeaks out.

Derek is inches from his face, and Stiles—from what he can only assume is the lingering effects of whatever vet-clinic puppy pain pill Scott slipped him—sort of wants to lick the grumpy frown right off his lips. 

Propelled by stupidity and ridiculous teenage hormones, Stiles arches forward as much as he can with a hand on his throat, and presses his lips to Derek’s in a quick, awkward kiss.

When he pulls away, shocked and sober, Derek is looking at him with an expression he can only imagine mirrors his own. Until the shock washes away and is replaced by an otherworldly level of Derek-esque rage. Alpha-red bleeds into Dereks irises.

Oh, mother of all things good and holy, Stiles is so going to die. 

Derek closes his eyes, inhaling a shaky breath as he seems to steady himself. “Stiles, if you ever touch my dick again, I will beat you to death with it.”

“Fair,” replies Stiles as Derek releases the grip on his throat. “So, um...” Stiles rubs at the back of his neck. “Should we talk about that kiss thing?”

“Get. In the goddamn. Car,” Derek enunciates, eyes still closed, and Stiles can’t help but wonder if werewolf dick doesn’t have the same super-speedy healing abilities as the rest of them. 

“Not a good time. That’s cool. We’ll just...save it for...”

Stiles runs out the door to Derek’s car and clambers into the passenger seat, all the while berating his own bastard brain for not cooperating. “Just behave, would you?” he whispers to himself before Derek comes out the front door. 

~*~

“Possibly a Banshee,” Deaton says, turning to pull a book off the shelf behind him. He flips it open to a hideous and terrifying picture of something that looks to Stiles like that crazy, shifty bitch from The Grudge. “It’s a bad omen to hear one shrieking. Most people who are familiar with the lore believe it to mean they’re going to die.”

Stiles looks over at Derek, unable to suppress the warm feeling creeping through him. “Aww,” he says. “That’s why you came back for me. You didn’t want me to die. I knew you loved me.”

Derek’s look of shock would be comical if Stiles wasn’t still mostly fearing for his life.

“It’s just a theory,” Deaton says, flipping the book open on the table before them. “Based on old Celtic legends, but,” he looks up at Stiles and the group of anxious werewolf friends around him, “stranger things have happened around here.”

“How do we stop it?” Scott asks, finally voicing the question that has been rolling through Stiles’ mind since the word “Banshee” left Deaton’s mouth.

“Who says we need to?” offers Erica. She’s been mostly quiet up to this point, sticking close to Isaac and doing whatever Derek tells her to.

“Okay.” Stiles turns his eat-shit gaze on her. “You’re out. Mystery, Inc. doesn’t need you.” Stiles nods toward Scott. “Scooby and I can take care of this. I’m voting you off the island.”

She cocks her head and narrows her eyes. “If we’re voting, I say the weakest link should be the first to go.”

Stiles reaches out and squeezes Isaac’s shoulder. “She didn’t mean it, man. We all still love you.”

“Can we be serious for a minute?” says Scott. “I mean, there’s possibly an angry spirit floating around Beacon Hills trying to kill Stiles. What are we supposed to do?”

“Find it,” says Deaton, brilliantly helpful as ever. “And in the meantime, keep an eye on this one.” Deaton scruffles Stiles’ hair.

  


  



	5. Robo-Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles doesn't think he needs a babysitter. Okay, maybe he does. But he's sure it shouldn't be someone who may or may not want to wear his spleen as a hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still going bareback with this one. No beta. No regrets. This is my low-pressure, just-for-fun fic that I'm posting as I work on my longer 40k story.  
> This story takes place in my imagination somewhere near the end of season 2. Erica and Boyd are still around. For anyone who has been reading this since it first started posting, you'll probably notice, I've been Jossed. I didn't know Lydia was going to be a banshee when I started to write this (though I suspected after I started doing banshee research), but I think I'm okay to just roll with the punches here. Let's see how it goes.

Turns out Stiles’ wrist _is_ broken, but, due to the swelling, they can’t put a cast on it until tomorrow. His dad is like the Riddler on their way home from the hospital, but doesn’t seem at all surprised when Stiles insists that he did, in fact, just stumble over his own feet and fall.

The pack wasn’t able to track anything by the river, no signs of a banshee, or even that homeless guy who hangs his underwear in a tree to dry while bathing in the creek behind the warehouse. They haven’t given up their search, but they’re also taking Deaton’s instructions pretty seriously.

Scott has been assigned the duty of first shift babysitter, but with the way he’s been staring at his phone for the last fifteen minutes texting Allison, Stiles isn’t sure he’s going to survive to need Derek as second shift babysitter.

“Try not to trip on anything else,” his dad says, pulling up into their driveway to drop them off before heading back to work. “I’ll be home at 6am, and you’d damn well better be in the same condition you are now.”

Stiles nods and lets Scott out of the backseat.

“Stiles,” his dad calls as Stiles is unlocking the front door.

“Yeah?”

“Stay,” he says firmly, and while Stiles is well aware of his dad’s reasoning for assuming Stiles might sneak out and get into trouble between now and 6am, he’s still hurt. Mostly because, dog jokes? Not so funny when used against humans. He’s disappointed.

~*~

He’s so bored he could actually pull his own eyes out and use them as marbles for entertainment. He can’t play videogames one-handed, even if that _would_ give Scott a fair chance of beating him for once, and he’s exhausted all the TV shows in his Netflix queue during the last two leave-Stiles-locked-up-while-we-hunt-for-the-bad-guys endeavors his friends have abandoned him for. He's too amped up to sleep, even if it is late enough that his mind should be perfectly okay with shutting down.

Stiles wishes his wrist had been casted tonight. He’d use it to clock Scott over the head.  Instead, he just twists onto his side on the couch and glares at the side of his best friend’s stupid face. He’s still staring down at his phone, so Stiles throws an orange at him.

“You’re lousy company, you know?” he says.

“Did you want me to put on a puppet show for you?” Scott asks with a derpy smile that melts away all of Stiles’ irritation. Well, okay. Not _all_ of it.

“Actually, that would be really nice. We could make sock puppets.”

“I’m sorry, man,” says Scott. “I know I suck today.”

“Most days,” Stiles corrects teasingly.

“Okay, yeah. Point. Anyway, it’s almost Derek’s turn here, and I’m supposed to be meeting Allison soon, so…”

“Oh!” Stiles exclaims, shooting up from his couch-sprawl. “Wait. I know this one. Dumbass main character is faced with the opportunity to get laid and leaves his best friend alone _just for a minute,_ and the super-lovable-yet-completely-disposable supporting character is slaughtered by the bad guy, right?”

Scott rolls his eyes. “Relax, dude. I’m not leaving until Derek gets here.”

“That’s comforting,” says Stiles, images of Derek tearing out his spleen flicking through his mind.

Stiles is dreading seeing him tonight. Now that the puppy painkiller fog has lifted and he has a full recollection of the afternoon’s events, he thinks it may be best to just take his chances with the banshee.

Scott leaves the room and returns a few minutes later with a turkey sandwich balanced on top of Stiles’ laptop. All is forgiven.

“I figured we could at least try to do some poking around,” Scott says, powering up the laptop. “See if we can find any useful information about banshees.”

Stiles has a face full of sandwich, but nods his agreement enthusiastically. His wrist is starting to hurt again despite the ibuprofen he scarfed down earlier. There’s a dull ache all up the inner side, and he can actually see the bruise forming around the edge of the loose bandage Melissa had wrapped around it.

Scott takes pity on him and begins typing into the search engine himself.

“Don’t you dare click on that,” Stiles says as Scott hovers the cursor over the first wikipedia page that pops up in the search results. “We’d be more likely to get accurate results asking _my dad_ than we would if we just wiki it.”

Scott scrolls farther down the page until he comes to one titled Spirits of Legend and Fantasy. It looks less campy than the rest, so Scott clicks the link.

It doesn't give them much more information than Deaton already had, but it does say that, in Celtic legend, it's believed the banshee's shriek is meant to warn of death, and not actually inflict it. Stiles gives up after a few more fumbled attempts at commandeering the laptop. He's in no condition to type right now.

Instead, he moves on to something more entertaining.

~*~

Derek looks unsurprisingly murderous when he arrives a half hour later. Stiles side-eyes the buttons he's got spread out on the coffee table, then looks back at Derek. Okay, so sock puppets are definitely out of the equation now, which is a travesty, really, because he'd just found the perfect mismatch pair for eyes. Whatever.

He walks back over to the couch, leaving Derek to make his own way in, which should be easy for normal people, but then Stiles remembers Derek isn't normal. He also never really uses Stiles' door.

"Would you be more comfortable coming in through the window?" Stiles asks, scooping buttons up and dumping them back in their jar.

Scott doesn't even wait for Derek to step over the threshold before he's out the door, calling out some halfassed "see you tomorrow" as he stumbles over his own hard-on on his way out.

Derek watches him go, then turns back to Stiles, still standing at the door.

"It smells like warm cheese and feet in there."

"That'ssss...probably not the line I would have opened with, but okay." Stiles fumbles around on the end table to light a candle, but then thinks better of it and quickly blows it out. He doesn't want it to look like he's trying to set up some sort of romantic ambiance. Cheesy foot smell actually takes some of the pressure off, he thinks.

"Hobo Carl is dead," Derek says, finally stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

Stiles is taken aback by the abrupt announcement. "What did you do?" he asks sternly.

"It wasn't me, dumbass." Derek drops down on the chair across the room, looking too damn comfortable in his loose-fitting jeans and angry muppet scowl.

Stiles huffs a put-upon sigh and drapes his arms over the back of the couch, trying for comfortable-casual like Derek, but failing when a shock of pain shoots up his arm. Stiles winces.

"Have you taken anything for that?" Derek asks, ever the nurturing sociopath.

"I took 800 milligrams of ibuprofen when I got home."

Derek rolls his eyes and gets up, stalking off to the kitchen. He comes back with a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol.

Stiles takes the offering gratefully. He knows Tylenol won't do shit compared to the ibuprofen, but if he doesn't alternate them, he'll end up with a terrible stomach ache. Stiles has enough aches.

"So, Hobo Carl?"

Derek shrugs sitting down on the couch next to Stiles this time, a little too close, and Stiles has to remind himself to breathe.

"Looks innocent enough. Probably a heart attack or something."

"Were you the one who found his body?"

Derek nods. "The alley by the warehouse smelled like death when I went by. Your father's there now with the coroner."

"Wait. By the warehouse? As in, the one I was walking by when I heard the screaming?"

Derek lifts an eyebrow as if Stiles is stupid for even having to ask.

"Well, I guess that makes sense," Stiles says. "Their scream is supposed to warn of death. Maybe that means I'm safe now, since Hobo Carl was the one who died."

"And..." Derek says ominously.

"And?"

"That little brunette girl from the diner."

"Th...sh...what?" Stiles stammers. "Ashlee is dead?"

"Yeah."

Stiles stares off into space, trying to sort through the clusterfuck of pieces that make up this day.

"I'm guessing that wasn't a heart attack," Stiles says after a moment. Ashlee was only a few years older than Stiles, so he doesn't think that's a real possibility.

"Not sure yet. I heard it over your dad's police scanner when he showed up to the alley."

"Two deaths," Stiles says dumbly. "Two screams."

"Yeah. So." Derek leans forward and starts hen-pecking at Stiles' keyboard. Again, Stiles has to fight the urge to reach over and take control. He compensates with something more one-hand friendly instead.

"Siri," Stiles says into his phone. "What is a banshee."

She comes back with the same information they've already got from their first two sources, and when Stiles lets her know she's useless, she snarks at him that she's doing her best.

Infuriating robo-bitch.

Derek glances over at Stiles' open notebook. There isn't much to go off of, but Stiles did doodle a rather awesome sketch of the Wailing Woman.

Derek rolls his eyes, then gestures toward one of the four things Stiles does have written down. "Try the Celtic name for her," he says.

Stiles queues up Siri again. "What is a Bean Sidhe?" he asks, then glares down at his screen, waiting for her smartass reply.

_"I don't understand the question. Would you like to search the web for 'being inside'?"_

"No! I don't. Oh, God." Stiles clears his throat before continuing, voice a full octave higher. "Are you trying to kill me?"

The double-ding indicates that she's actually thinking about it. _"I'm sorry, Little Virgin Riding Hood. I'm afraid I can't answer that."_

Stiles tosses his phone across the room as Derek snorts with laughter. Like, _actually fucking chortling_ at Stiles.

"Tell your mutt betas to keep their paws off my shit," Stiles snaps. He had forgotten to change the nickname Isaac programmed in last time he was dicking around in Stiles' settings. "That's the last time I let him play Candy Crush on my phone. Sneaky bastard."

Derek goes and retrieves Stiles phone from across the room, eyes still alight with suppressed laughter and Stiles kind of hates how adorable that is.

"You aren't pronouncing it right," he says, handing Stiles back his phone. "It's Gaelic. It's pronounced 'shee,' not 'side.'"

"Well, excuse me, Mr. Born Into the Supernatural Fuckery and Knows How to Pronounce Shit Correctly." Stiles snatches his evil bitch phone back.

"You're excused, Little Virgin Riding Hood," Derek replies. And, look at that, he actually _does_ have a sense of humor.

"Please, oh please, choke on a dick," Stiles tosses back dryly. And then his eyes widen in horror. It's out before he can process it completely—damn brain filter—but Stiles really wishes he could reach up and grab the words out of the air between them. Stiles is reminded of kisses and dicks and Derek's mouth on his—albeit reluctantly. Or, altogether unwillingly.

Stiles worries at his lip, wondering if now would be a good time to address the big, fat elephant in the room.

 _Meh,_ he thinks. Why not? If there's even the tiniest chance he's going to die in the next few days, he might as well get that out of the way.

"Sorry about your dick," Stiles says, rubbing at the back of his neck. Derek looks over at him, expression blank, so Stiles continues. "I mean, earlier, with the...punching."

"I know what you mean, Stiles," Derek bites out, like just _thinking_ about it is somehow renewing the physical pain he'd felt.

Stiles cringes. "Are we cool, then?" he asks nervously. It's not exactly what he's talking about. He is sorry for treating Derek's package with anything but tender, loving care, but what he's really apologizing for is the near sexual assault.

"Yeah," says Derek.

"And about the kiss," Stiles adds, eyes wide in surprise as his mouth runs entirely without his permission. "That was, um..." _Stop it, stop it now!_ "Well, sometimes you just." Stiles needs an out. Please, God, let a Banshee come floating through the goddamn wall right now. He does _not_ need to tell Derek that he actually sometimes looks stupidly-kissable. "You just sometimes look stupidly-kissable." Oh, Jesus. "With the angry jaw-clench and aggressively sexy eyebrows."

Eyebrows that are now joining forces with Derek's hairline to morph into one Giant Super Brow of Shock.

"Did Scott give you another vet pill?" Derek asks.

 _Yes!_ Stiles thinks. _Yes, tell him that's it!_ He shakes his head. _Damn it, can a guy not get a break?_

No, seriously, what the actual fuck is wrong with his brain today? Before Stiles has the chance to fully consider the possibility of actual brain damage, Derek is leaning into him on the couch, hand cupped around the back of Stiles' head and lips pressed to his in a surprisingly gentle kiss, stealing away Stiles' breath and thoughts all at once.

  
  



	6. Some Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles doesn't really know what this thing is between him and Derek, but he wants to find out.

Stiles isn't one-hundred-percent sure how he ends up straddling Derek's lap, but he assumes it's got a great deal to do with the fact that most of his blood left his brain and migrated south the second Captain Angry Eyebrows entered the room.

He rolls his hips against Derek, braces his good hand on the back of the couch and leans his weight onto it as he moves in to kiss him again.

He has no idea why he's being allowed this type of contact, but he can't find it in him to care. Not when he can tell Derek is just as hard as he is. So he just continues to grind slowly as he sucks on Derek's tongue. He isn't stopping Stiles, so that's got to be a good sign.

Stiles grinds down harder, loses himself in the slick slide of Derek's tongue against his, the heavy breathing and slow rocking. Stiles doesn't even care if he comes in his pants, though he's sure he'll be pretty mortified tomorrow.

He slips his hand down between them, fumbles at the button of Derek's jeans with fingers that refuse to cooperate.

"Out," he says when he finally remembers his wrist is broken and he's gonna need help with this part.

Derek stills, mid-kiss, his hands firm on Stiles' hips. Impressively, it only takes Stiles' brain a half a second to catch up. "I meant your dick, not you," he says.

Derek wraps his fingers around Stiles' injured wrist, causing him to wince and jerk it away.

"Don't," he hisses, and then moves in to attach his mouth to Derek's neck. He almost pulls away, worried that any werewolf might take that as a threat, but Derek tips his head back and groans, and the feel of that rumble beneath Stiles' lips shoots straight to his dick.

"And all this time I just thought you wanted to kill me," he says, slowly rolling against Derek again.

"I did, mostly."

"Your pillow talk needs work."

"Stiles," Derek says, and this time, he does pull away, sinking into the back of the couch as far as he can, one hand braced on Stiles' chest to keep him from moving in. "I think we're forgetting something."

"What, lube?" Yeah, he doesn't have any of that handy, but they don't have to go _that_ far.

Derek gives him an unamused head-tilt. "Definitely not what I meant."

"You want me to buy you dinner first?" Stiles never took Derek for the romantic type, but maybe he was wrong. "I can make you a Pop Tart if that'll help," he says.

Derek rolls his eyes. "We're supposed to be checking into this banshee thing," he replies.

"I thought we were good with that. People are dead, none of whom are me, so..." Stiles tries to lean in for another kiss, but Derek stops him.

Stiles' shoulders slump, and if dicks could weep in a non-porny way, his would be, he's sure.

"I've had a long, hard day, Derek. And speaking of long and hard..."

"You didn't actually _do_ anything today."

"That's not true at all. I spent a fuckton of time converting oxygen to carbon dioxide." God, Stiles wants to lick that scowl right off Derek's face.

Derek tips Stiles off of his lap and scoots back up to the laptop. It's probably for the best, or, at least, Stiles tries to convince his dick of that. He doesn't even know what this thing is between them. They've gone from sarcastic jibes and threats of bodily harm to stabbing at each others tonsils with their tongues in a matter of hours.

Stiles isn't complaining. Tonsil jousting with Derek is the highlight of his year. He just never expected Derek to allow _any_ of Stiles' dirty fantasies to come true, so it's understandably surprising.

Derek is slowly pecking away at the keyboard again while Stiles sits next to him, trying to will his confused boner into submission. It isn't the best idea, he realizes, because as soon as his attention isn't focused entirely on his dick, the throbbing in his wrist comes back. And, yeah, Tylenol is an asshole. That shit doesn't work at all.

Derek sighs and looks over at Stiles, reaches a hand out and wraps his long fingers around Stiles' wrist again. Stiles doesn't pull away this time. He knows Derek isn't going to hurt him.

There's a warmth spreading up Stiles' arm, and when he looks down to where they're joined, he sees black lines pulsing up Derek's forearm as he drains the minimal amount of pain from Stiles' wrist.

"Thanks," Stiles says when Derek releases him and goes back to the laptop.

Derek nods, but doesn't look at him.

~*~

When Stiles wakes the next morning, he's in his bed with no signs of Derek around, the sun streaking in through his window in a blinding golden brightness that tells him it's well past 6am, and his father must be home now.

He briefly considers a quick jerk-off, until he remembers his wrist and curses the Patron Saint of Self-Pleasure for all his crappy luck.

He picks up his phone to text Derek instead. Rather than being an asshole about getting cockblocked by research or a banshee or unexpected werewolf morals—or whatever was the actual cockblocking factor last night—Stiles just tells him thanks for coming over. It's a simple enough message that even Siri can't fuck up.

Derek doesn't reply, and Stiles really doesn't even want to consider what that might mean. They'll eventually have to talk about this thing-that's-not-quite-a-thing between them, but now is not the time, and texting isn't the way.

Stiles rolls out if bed, pulls some clothes on, and heads downstairs to meet his dad.

~*~

"You're a little young to be working in a hospital, aren't you?" Stiles asks.

The dark haired girl just looks at him from under long, thick lashes and smiles, almost bashfully. She sets a couple of gauze wraps out on the tray with an intimidating pair of hooked scissors.

"I'm totally just a volunteer. Don't worry. I'm not the one, like, wrapping your wrist."

"I wasn't worried," Stiles says, though it's mostly a lie. The girl can't be any older than him, and the idea of a high school kid casting a broken _anything_ isn't something he's entirely comfortable with.

"Alex is taking some advanced classed at the university," Dr. Cook says from his place in the corner of the room. He has Stiles' x-ray displayed on the light board, going over the details of the fracture with Stiles' dad while Alex prepares the tray. "By the time she graduates high school this spring, she'll already have her bachelors degree." He smiles proudly at the girl.

"Ambitious," Stiles says, eyeing the scissors again.

"What color?" Alex asks, sliding a drawer open to show a rainbow array of wraps.

"Uh...blue, I guess." Stiles really wants to go with one of the bright neon colors, but he knows that'll only further hinder any chances his friends may give him of late night hunts. A crippled human isn't likely to be allowed to go on any werewolf ride-alongs anyway, let alone one who glows in the dark.

"Are you sure?" she asks holding up a roll of what can only be described as come-find-me-fuck-me pink gauze. "I think this one suits you."

"Pretty sure _no_ ," Stiles replies, glaring over his shoulder at his dad who's chuckling at their exchange.

Alex shrugs and tosses the wrap back into its place in the drawer before fishing out the blue one and placing it on the tray.

There's a rolled up towel on the counter beside Stiles, and he tries to convince himself it's not to clean up blood. There's no reason to _bleed_ while casting a broken wrist, right?

"Set your elbow here," Alex says, patting the towel.

That's do-able, Stiles thinks as he rests his arm on the fluffy towel.

Alex promptly reaches over, grabs his hand in a position that suggests she's about to start an arm wrestling match with him. Her skin is cold against his and he wonders if maybe he's got a fever.

She isn't all that gentle with him as she moves his arm into the necessary upright position, and Silles has to actively try not to flinch from the spike of pain that shoots down his arm.

The girl must notice, though. "Sorry," she says, laughing uncomfortably as she releases her grip.

Stiles shrugs.

The rest of the process goes by quickly, Dr. Cook wrapping Stiles' wrist, first in white, and then wetting the blue roll under the sink faucet before continuing with that one. He explains all that he's doing as he goes, and Stiles is pretty sure it's more for Alex's benefit than his and his father's, but he doesn't think he needs to memorizes the procedure anyway, so he doesn't really care.

"It's a bit tacky now, but it'll dry pretty quickly. Until then, be careful not to touch anything with it." The doctor holds up his gloved hands, showing blue stains on the latex, and Stiles gets it. He doesn't want to paint the interior of his dad's car blue. "I'll let Alex explain the aftercare procedures to you while I go get a printout, and I'll see you back here in a couple weeks for a follow up x-ray. We'll need to make sure you don't need surgery." Dr. Cook pulls his gloves off and pats Stiles on the knee before leaving the room, Stiles' dad following him out.

"So," says Alex as she rolls her stool over in front of Stiles, "you'll need to keep it dry. You don't want the skin underneath to get wet. Tape a plastic bag around it for showers and stuff, and you should be fine."

"What if it itches?" Stiles asks.

The girl shrugs. "Then you're screwed."

“Sweet,” Stiles replies. “Thanks for that.”

She gives him a sympathetic look. “It can be kind of hard learning to adjust and work around it. If you need help with anything...I mean, you know, homework and stuff,” Alex shrugs and chews her bottom lip for a second. “I could help you. Just, like, until you get things figured out.”

Is she flirting with him? Girls don’t flirt with Stiles. _No one_ flirts with Stiles. Well, except for that one time Mr. Schroder, the school janitor, was offering to shower with him, but Stiles likes to think that doesn’t actually count.

“Uh…” he replies, not really sure what else to say.

“I mean, I’m sure you have friends who would be more than willing to help you out, so...yeah. That was probably stupid. Oh, god. Sorry.”

“No,” he interrupts, wanting to stop the poor girl from spiraling into a level of embarrassment Stiles is all too familiar with. “I appreciate it. Definitely. Who couldn’t use more friends, right?”

~*~

“I can’t breathe,” Stiles gasps. He might be exaggerating, but not by much. Isaac isn’t a big guy at all, but when he’s sitting on Stiles’ chest, his lungs choose to disagree with that assessment.

“Well, if you would have held still in the first place, this wouldn’t have been necessary,” Erica says, her grip firm on Stiles’ cast as she scribbles away with a silver Sharpie.

Stiles tries kicking and squirming out from under Isaac, but it’s no use. The bastard isn’t even struggling to hold Stiles down. Just sitting there, casual as ever, with his ankles crossed on the coffee table in front of him. Fucking werewolf strength.

“Derek, I can’t believe you’re letting them get away with this. If I die on your watch, I’ll be back to haunt you forever. You’ll never be able to jerk off in the shower again without feeling my eyes on you.”

Derek barely glances up from the book he’s reading in the corner of the loft, arches an eyebrow that could mean any one of a dozen different things, then goes back to reading.

“Was that supposed to be a threat?” Isaac asks, picking at his fingernail now.

Erica laughs and jerks Stiles’ arm a little straighter.

“Don’t hurt him,” Derek snaps at her, and this time, at least, Stiles can hear the warning in his tone.

“I’m not hurting him,” Erica replies. He wonders how she manages to keep her tone so sweet sometimes; Erica, who went from timid teenager to smokin’ super-slut in one turn of the earth.

“Bullshit. She is,” says Stiles, wriggling a little more desperately. “And I can’t breathe. I’m gonna die.”

“Well,” replies Derek, “I’m not going to come over there and die _for_ you, so you’ll just have to try a little harder to survive.”

“That isn’t fair. _I_ would die for _you_ ,” says Stiles, and he’s only partly joking. His friends are a bunch of dicks. Seriously, a whole fucking bouquet of cocks, but he loves them, and he really would take a bullet for them. Maybe not these two assholes, but Scott, Derek, even Boyd.

“Boyd?” he yelps as Isaac adjusts his position on Stiles’ chest. “Save me?”

“Sorry, man. I’m not your Jesus.” Boyd just stands there by Stiles’ head, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Erica work. “Besides, she’s almost done.”

“Just a few more…” Erica pokes her tongue out in concentration, her head tilted as she examines her work and adds a couple more short strokes of the pen. “There.” She smiles brightly to herself.

Isaac rolls off of Stiles’ chest and moves over to look at Erica’s drawing. She tilts it enough for Stiles to see from where he’s lying on the couch, still trying to catch his breath.

“You seriously drew a dick on my arm?”

Erica snaps the cap back on the Sharpie with a theatrical flourish, then rises to her feet. “Not on your arm, silly. On your hand.”

“I hope you die a painful death.” Stiles doesn’t miss the way Derek’s attention snaps over to him at that, so he quickly rectifies. “Fine. No painful death. But I _do_ hope you get the world's most awful case of crabs. And not just the normal disgusting kind, either. Like, supernatural werecrabs.”

"Hey!" Boyd says with a hurt puppy expression would rival any of Scott’s.

"You too. You're not innocent. Why do I even come over here?" Stiles sits up and rubs at the back of his neck. "Maybe I do need new friends. That candy striper at the hospital today was totally into me. Bet _she_ wouldn't try to kill me."

The room clears out pretty quickly after that, Erica dragging Boyd and Isaac off to go run in the woods and do werewolfy things.

Stiles is left alone with Derek, and while he just wants to go curl up on his lap in the corner, he's pretty sure Derek wouldn't go for that. Not after the abrupt way he ended their interaction last night, and the ignored text message from this morning.

Stiles sighs in frustration, not really sure what to do with this new not-quite-thing between them, and tells Siri to text Scott and ask him to come give Stiles a ride home.

"I can drive you," Derek says, finally putting his book down.

"I wouldn't want to inconvenience you," Stiles replies. And, yeah, maybe he's a little bitter, but not because Derek didn't get Isaac and Erica off of him. Stiles just really wants to know what's going on between them, but Derek doesn't seem to want to acknowledge it at all.

He lets Derek drive him home anyway, not wanting to wait for Scott to pull out long enough to reply to his message. There's a fragile silence between them on the ride home, and Stiles is irrationally afraid to shatter it with words. He doesn't want to broach the topic, doesn't want to hear Derek tell him it's nothing, or that it was a mistake, so he just keeps quiet instead.

Derek cuts the engine when he pulls into Stiles’ driveway.

“Dad’s here,” Stiles says, as if the sheriff’s department suburban in front of them doesn’t make that obvious enough. “No need for a babysitter.” Stiles reaches his good arm over and grabs the door handle. “Thanks for the ride,” he says.

“Hey,” Derek says before Stiles slides out of the car. He reaches over and curls his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles shivers from the contact, the warmth of Derek’s skin on his. “I can stay, if you want.”

“Do _you_ want?” Stiles asks.

Derek just looks down at the console between them and takes a deep breath.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

Stiles doesn’t even bother to stop in the kitchen for dinner on his way up to his room, just climbs the stairs and shuts the door behind him, flopping down in his bed and clicking the light off.

Just before he drifts off to sleep, he’s sure he sees a shadow of movement outside his bedroom window, but it’s gone by the time his tired mind catches up to his eyes.

 


End file.
